A Quiet Night Indeed
by SmilingSloth
Summary: We join our favourite duo in quite a silly situation. Yes, Sherlock, we know you're bored, but what did that beaker ever do to you, hmm? May add more chapters when the fancy strikes me.


**This chapter is dedicated specially to the wonderfully wicked admin of the facebook page, _"I'd be lost wi__thout my blogger" ~Sherlock_, the hugely inspirational and supportive _TSylvestrisA_ and last but certainly not least, the most helpful and kindest friend and beta-for-life, _WhiteCatAndCo_. Thanks so much you guys!**

* * *

"JOHN!"

John bolted out of his chair, all thoughts of a quiet night in front of the fire grudgingly forgotten. Sherlock was pacing- no, _flitting _around the kitchen like a trapped hummingbird. "Sherlock, what is it? Are you hurt?" He didn't look any different physically, apart from his crumpled shirt and frazzled movements. "Did you spill acid on your hand again? Sherlock?"

Sherlock was opening and closing cupboard doors, glancing inside, shifting things around, racing around the table, ducking underneath, finding something (why on earth did they even have beekeeper hats?) with an "Aha!" before throwing it onto the floor with a grunt of frustration. Wash, rinse, dry, repeat. Wash, rinse, dry, repeat...

"Sherlock!" John was getting dizzy just looking at the man. Praying that Mrs. Hudson was out, John counted to ten, took a deep inhale and roared, "SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES!"

("Boys!") came a muffled voice from below. So she had heard. At least Sherlock had stilled.  
"Sherlock, what do you want from-"  
"Dead, John," Sherlock stood under the kitchen lights, hands held out to John, beseeching,"... Dead."  
John frowned. "What?"

"DEAD, JOHN! EMPTY, LISTLESS, VOID-LIKE, TAKE YOUR PICK, THE _*AT*_MOSPHERE IN HERE!" (He'd punched a nearby cupboard on the first syllable. Mrs. Hudson would not be impressed.)  
John, frowning further, slowly turned around to the lounge room he'd just left. A tense few seconds passed, in which John wondered if it was a Thursday again (he could never get the hang of Thursdays). Sherlock stood waiting for a response. John turned back to cautiously look at his crazed lunatic of a flatmate and, with a nervous lick of his lips, cleared his throat. "What?"

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut. His whole body trembled with such restrained fury that John wondered if he'd miscalculated; he wondered if the distance between here and the kitchen window wasn't too far away after all.

"John," Sherlock squinted at John, stepping closer, "we need to _do something,_" his voice gentle, soft and terrifying,"..._John_."

John tilted his head. "Noo, no Sherlock, " he pointed a finger,"YOU are bored, I was perfectly happy to spend the night in, with a cup of tea and-"

Without warning, Sherlock flung his entire body back towards the table, grabbed a beaker, and hurled it at the wall.

Silence.  
("Boys! Keep It Down Up There!")

"Well...that solved nothing," said John. Silence so thick it could stuff a turkey commenced again.

Sherlock's dangerous eyes scanned the room when, suddenly, he flew forwards once again, this time into the lounge room, sending John's chair flying back like 'WOOOAH BITCH GET OUT THE WAAY', knocking a chair aside, jumping at the table, grabbed the nearest laptop, raising it above his head with both hands, staring blankly straight into John's eyes...

...before swiftly rushing the laptop down, with immense force, at his upturned knee. There was a great shattering, crunching noise, and the almost-halved laptop pieces fell onto the floor, glass and plastic shards seeping out. Apart from a slight grimace upon impact of the laptop with his knee, Sherlock's face never changed.

John's face, however, had transformed at least three times before settling into a familiar expression. It was the same expression he'd pulled when he first witnessed Bluebell a-glowing at Baskerville. His eyebrows knit upwards together, mouth hung open, a look of sheer...non-understanding.

"Bored."

A shifting of feet. "Yeah, no shit, Sherlock."

A look of revelation quickly changed to a look of...what was that, sheepishness? Guilt?  
"I'll buy you a new one, John."

"...thank you...I suppose." John stared, still dumbfounded.

...

("Is everything alright boys?")


End file.
